Three decades ago, I celebrated my 30th birthday in the time-honored tradition of all young people who think they are an adult but have no real idea about life, duty or personal responsibility – I got smashed. In fairness, I had quite a lot to get smashed about. I had spent the whole of my 20s in one seedy rental after another while I supported myself with part-time jobs and tried to be a writer. But a week before my 30th, I got my first book deal and, the day before, I got my first real job in journalism.
Two years after that birthday party, while I was still single and living in a bedsit, I found myself pregnant with my first child. The father and I moved in together six weeks before our baby was born, at a stage in our relationship when I was saying, ‘Do you, um, have sugar in coffee?’ That baby, Alice, is now 27 and lives in Berlin. Her sister Mabel is 22 and on the cusp of leaving home – and the man I got to know while we changed nappies together is 63 and staring at retirement. And me? Implausibly, I’m 60. How the hell has that happened?
NEW LONGING
I no longer live in a bedsit – I have my own house and am financially secure. In fact, I have all the things I’d craved three decades previously: a relationship that produced two beautiful children, a home and a successful career. But as I contemplated entering my seventh decade, there was only one thing I wanted: to lose all those things, temporarily at least.
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